Broken Vows

by Cory Daniells

  “Then they beheaded the Mayor. They called for all the heads of the Guilds, bade them come to the square with their families. First they killed the leaders of the guilds, then—”

  “Then they slaughtered the women and children,” Imoshen muttered, understanding her vision.

  “No.” He frowned at her.

  Imoshen shook her head. It would have taken him at least a day to reach the Stronghold. Instinctively, she knew slaughter of the innocents was happening right now. And she was helpless to prevent it.

  “When I left they were calling for the firstborn son of every family. My mother wouldn’t let me go. They’d already killed my father, Guildmaster of the Silversmiths. She told me to slip away to the docks, and swim down river to escape.”

  Imoshen sprang to her feet. The goblet fell to the stone floor, rattling in a half circle. It was all horribly clear at last. “They’re killing women and children, hunting them through the streets—”

  “Who?” The General caught her arm, swung her around to face him.

  “Your half-brother and his army!” she hissed. “It’s a massacre! If you want the rest of the country to turn against you, go join the king and murder the townspeople of T’Diemn!”

  She saw the General blanch. He did not question her claim.

  “We ride at dawn,” he bellowed. “I want every man of my Elite Guard ready to move out. I’ll select a core guard to hold the Stronghold. Move!”

  The men were startled into action. They headed for the door and the General strode past her to follow them. She caught his arm.

  “What are you going to do?”

  His dark eyes met hers. “Save the city. If I don’t make a move I’ll lose the Island.”

  She nodded. “You may have already lost the Island. When word of this gets out the people will fight to the death rather than be slaughtered after surrender.”

  “I keep my word!” General Tulkhan ground out. “Hasn’t the Stronghold met with a fair surrender?”

  Rage flared through Imoshen. She wanted to deny him his answer, but honesty forbade it.

  “You have been fair.” The words left a bitter taste in her mouth.

  A muscle jumped in his cheek. His obsidian eyes blazed and she suddenly realized that his honor was at stake. At that moment she had an insight into the General’s warrior code. It was so alien to hers in some ways, and yet so similar in others.

  “What will you do? You are not the king and people are dying.”

  “What can I do? I am only a True-man, without T’En gifts. Let me go!” His voice was harsh.

  She realized she had been holding his arm, though he could have easily thrust her aside. Anger burned in his dark eyes. Was he angry with her because of her ability to scry, or with his half-brother for risking what he had fought so hard to gain? Imoshen could not tell.

  Now was not the time for a battle of wills. For once they were both on the same side. She wanted General Tulkhan to save the townspeople of T’Diemn. She released his arm and stepped back. He swung away from her, striding from the room.

  Imoshen’s bedchamber was suddenly empty except for the exhausted, bloodied youth who had lain there at their feet watching all this. She offered him her hand. “Come to the fire.”

  “My Lady.” He clasped her hand and brought it to his lips, raising a weary face to hers. “My mother is part T’En. She said the Aayel would know what to do. But they tell me the old one is dead. Do you trust this Ghebite General? How can you? When—”

  “Nothing is that simple.” She stared down at his bruised face, exasperated. “We can trust General Tulkhan to take steps to hold this island. And that does not include murdering the townspeople after they’ve surrendered. It goes against the principles of basic war craft!” She tightened her grasp and pulled on his hand. “Now come and let me clean you up.”

  He staggered a little as he came to his feet. His eyes were level with hers. “Nay. It would not be right for the last of the T’En to tend me.”

  Imoshen almost laughed. She pushed him toward the fireside. “Sit down.” Then she turned to get her medicants. He reminded her of her brother, an odd mixture of earnest and cocksure. That thought made the laughter die on her lips. Her brother was dead. Every member of her family was lost to her. She was the last T’En, straggling to survive.

  Even if she were able to forge an understanding with Tulkhan, he was not the king. His younger half-brother Gharavan held the power and he was sacking T’Diemn.

  Imoshen felt she understood the General on one level at least. He was an honorable man by his own standards and a statesman. But what if this King Gharavan ordered Tulkhan to raze the Stronghold, execute her and her supporters? Her skin went cold. What would he do? Would he commit treason and betray his half-brother for her, a mere Dhamfeer?

  It was a while since she had seen the contempt in his eyes, but he had a lifetime of prejudice to overcome. And anyway she was not one of his people. He owed her no allegiance. He owed her nothing. He did not even believe she carried his son.

  So much for the Aayel’s plans!

  She shivered as she poured a few herbs into the bowl and dipped the cloth to cleanse the lad’s face.

  “It isn’t right,” he said suddenly.

  “What isn’t right?” She concentrated on the wound above his right eye, which had swollen shut. The gash in his forehead was bleeding freely still.

  “It isn’t right that you should serve me.”

  Imoshen met his good eye then, surprised to see it was the golden brown of a True-man’s, while his skin was pale like her own. He was the result of six hundred years of interbreeding.

  “You have a name?” she asked.

  “Drakin, uh Drake.”

  She smiled. His mother would have called him Drakin, little Drake. She wrung out the cloth and pressed the wound’s edges together. Instinctively, she used her gift to urge the flesh to knit and felt the warmth flow through her fingers into his skin. He didn’t flinch, seemed unaware of it.

  Why did the healing come so easily to her? Imoshen didn’t have time to wonder.

  “It is as it should be, Drake. I am the last T’En. I live to serve the people. You are one of my people. Yes?” She smiled when she saw his bemused expression. He nodded briefly. “Then let me serve you.”

  She took the cloth away, pleased to see the wound had stopped bleeding. Applying crushed leaves to prevent it festering, she wrapped clean cloth around his head and saw to the lesser cuts on his lip. All the while she felt his eyes on her.

  “Yes?” she asked at last.

  “You are very like him. You could be his sister.”

  Even before she spoke she knew who Drake was referring to but she pretended not to understand. “My brother is dead.”

  “No. T’Reothe. He came to my parents to have his silver valued when he returned from his first voyage. I was only a lad then but I was allowed to stay. He spoke kindly to me, told me tales of things he had seen while my father weighed the silver.”

  “Really?” Imoshen knew so little about the man she had been betrothed to. So Reothe had been kind to a boy who could do him no favors. The thought hurt her and she realized she would rather not know Reothe’s good qualities.

  “My mother has your eyes. She told me tales of T’Imoshen the First. In T’Reothe I saw them come to life and now again in you,” Drake whispered shyly. He touched her sixth finger lightly and his gaze lifted to her hair. “I heard he was betrothed to you and I wondered. Now I see. You were meant for him, to bring back the great—”

  “Hush.” She pressed her fingers to his lips, distressed by what she knew he would say. If she wanted Drake and other young men like him to live, she must lie. Those lies sprang easily to her lips. “That was another lifetime. Reothe is dead. I have made my peace with the General.”

  “Murderer. His king called the Guild Heads to the square. He had them beheaded before their families. My mother screamed . . .”He moaned, unable to go on.

  Imos
hen felt his terrible pain as if it was her own. When healing she had to open herself to the other’s feelings. It left her vulnerable. But to dwell on it would only bring more suffering and anger. “You did the right thing in coming here. How did you manage it so quickly?”

  He gave a rueful grin. “I stole a soldier’s horse, rode it then walked it and rode it again. I tried to sneak into the Stronghold but the General’s men caught me. They beat me.”

  “I see. Kalleen?” Imoshen came to her feet. She’d sensed the farm girl’s curious presence for some time now. Her maidservant stepped forward. “This young man has done us a great service. Would you see that he has a room, someone to see to his needs.”

  He protested faintly, his cheeks burning with embarrassment, but Imoshen ignored this. With some final instructions to Kalleen about preparing a healing broth, she left him by the fire with a blanket around him.

  Restlessness plagued Imoshen. She had followed the Aayel’s plan to success only to have her peace of mind destroyed by a petty Ghebite king.

  She dragged a full-length white fur cloak which had been her mother’s around her shoulders and made her way to the stairs. She needed to escape the confines of the Stronghold.

  It was nearly dawn and the festivities of the Harvest Feast were over. In the courtyard by the stables the Elite Guard were already stirring. Imoshen could hear their excited voices, the champ of horses, the jingle of harness.

  Driven by something she did not understand she made her way up to the battlements and paced their length. She could feel the sting of the cold predawn air on her cheeks and on her bare feet, but her body was warm within the cloak.

  Out on the plain below hundreds of fires still dotted its far reaches. Her heart sank with the enormity of it all. Thousands of people sought shelter down there, expecting safety on her doorstep. And she had no magical path to safety, not even for herself. Covering her face with her hands, she withdrew into the stone crevice between the battlements, tears stinging her eyes.

  Her ancestors had planned well, creating little stone nooks behind the battlements so that defenders could hold off their attackers protected on their unshielded right sides. But they had not anticipated a time when the Stronghold would surrender without a fight. Shame and frustration gnawed at her. While she stood here the people of T’Diemn suffered at the hands of King Gharavan.

  If only the Aayel lived! She could have asked her great-aunt’s advice.

  A shudder shook Imoshen. She dared not attempt another scrying. Now that she was facing her darkest fears she had to admit it—the thing had gotten beyond her control. She had run with that woman who fled her captor. Unleashed by her terror, a fire had sprung up spontaneously and engulfed the bed curtains. And what of that poor woman?

  She was probably dead now. Imoshen had not saved her, could not even save herself.

  Scalding hot tears slid unheeded down her cheeks.

  Lack of sleep made her weary, lack of food made her light-headed. As she pulled the cloak tighter about her, she caught a faint scent of her mother. She closed her eyes, seeking comfort.

  But the dead offered no comfort.

  Only Reothe still lived. He had known his gifts longer than her. He had healed her wrist then shown her she could do the same for him, something she had never known she was capable of. He was familiar in a haunting way, a mirror to herself. If only she could ask his advice.

  She felt sleep creep up on her, making a mockery of her racing thoughts.

  As she drifted the sounds from the courtyard below interwove with her dream so that she thought she was lying in a cold hollow in the woods, hearing the enemy pass by. There was no fire to warm herself or her companions for they couldn’t risk one. They were rebels.

  Then she recognized the identity of the person who lay beside her in the hollow, felt his warmth down her length.

  “Reothe?”

  His eyes gleamed in the dark woods.

  “Imoshen?”

  It was so real, but sometimes dreams were like that. Suddenly she wanted to unburden herself.

  “The General goes to stop his half-brother the king from slaughtering the townsfolk of T’Diemn. I fear for my life, for his.”

  “And for mine?”

  Imoshen opened her mouth to speak, then it occurred to her that she had already named him a dead man tonight.

  Reothe clutched her shoulders, pulling her close to him. She felt his hard thigh between her legs. His face, coarse with its unshaven growth, scraped her cheek. His mouth was hard on hers. Yet it moved her to feel him like this—needful, urgent. She let herself go, savoring the fire of his touch, the fire created by his body’s need for her. His mouth claimed hers.

  Suddenly, he inhaled sharply.

  “What have you done this night?” he hissed, his breath fanning over her skin. “I can taste him on your mouth, smell him on your skin. How could you give yourself to him? You were mine. Promised to me!”

  His rage both frightened and aroused her. She wanted to laugh.

  “You arrogant fool!” Only in her dream would she dare to speak like this to him. “The world has changed. I am a caged captive, awaiting my death sentence. You are a woodland mouse fleeing before the raptor.”

  “How could you do this?” he whispered, running his hands down her body. She felt the hard length of him against her, the possessiveness in his body and understood that he wanted her. “How is it that I can touch you?”

  She lay there, watching his face by the twin moonlight filtering through the trees. There were other shadowy forms in the hollow with them. She could smell their unwashed bodies. The damp was seeping through her clothes.

  Suddenly, Imoshen knew this was no dream.

  She went to move, but he restrained her.

  Reothe lifted on one elbow, his other arm stretched jealously across her. She heard him send the others on to scout the party they were tracking. They scurried away through the woods, leaving her alone with Reothe.

  She shrugged out of his grasp, pulling herself up to hug her knees. He sat up to watch her. His pale face and hair glowed in the twin moonlight. It was a bad night for hunting, too much visibility.

  Suddenly he smiled. “If you have given yourself to him, why did you come to me?”

  She opened her mouth to speak but did not want to admit her fear.

  He leaned forward, crouching before her in the deep debris of the forest. She could smell the dying leaves, taste the tang of winter on the air. But overlying all that was his scent, his hunger for her.

  “You came to me because you are bound to me. We are the last of our kind. Your body calls to mine. I felt it the first time I saw you, saw it waken in you that time in the woods when you quickened at my touch. You came to me because I called you—”

  “No!” She tried to think through the rush of desire that warmed her body. Once again she did not know if what she felt was her own natural reaction to him, or some trick he used to seduce her.

  Imoshen hated her uncertainty, hated feeling out of control. Confused, she rolled to her feet and stepped around him, pacing across the clearing in the dappled light of the twin moons. It was as if a thin band joined them—the further she moved from him, the more painful the sensation was.

  She spun to face him. “‘What are you doing, Reothe?”

  He came to his feet, a pale silver figure. He exuded a menace she hadn’t recognized before. Still she stood her ground as he walked slowly, almost silently, through the leaf litter toward her.

  “You gave him that which should have been mine.” Reothe’s voice was low, a corrosive caress. “I want you. Come to me now. Join with me. We will be so much more paired, than apart.”

  She felt the strength of the bond which joined them, felt it tighten, drawing him to her, preparing her for him. In a flash Imoshen understood what he wanted.

  Fear gripped her. Even though she had never lain with Reothe he had this ability to cloud her mind and arouse her body. How much more power would he have over
her if she were to take him willingly into her arms, into her body and into her mind?

  More importantly, if he had her at his side the people would see them as a viable alternative to the Ghebite invaders. All her plans would go astray. General Tulkhan would—

  Reothe cursed. He sprang forward to cover the distance between them.

  She knew if he laid a hand on her she would be unable to resist his strange allure. Everything slowed. Like some feral being from a nightmare he covered the distance between them. She saw him passing through the patches of moonlight, alternately illuminated and dark, his face twisted in a grimace of determination.

  The realization hit her—she could not stand against him.

  “No!” The cry was torn from her.

  Imoshen turned and tried to run.

  Thud. Her head struck the stone of the battlements. Tears of pain stung her eyes. Heart still raging in her chest, she staggered to her feet, trying to take stock of her surroundings. She was alone, standing on the ramparts of her family’s Stronghold.

  Anxiously she searched the long walk, but it was empty. Reothe was not here, could not follow. If he was able to move as she had, he would not have had to use the secret passage in the Abbey. No wonder he wanted her to join forces with him. Yet, she had no idea how she had traveled to him. Had she really been present in the glade, or had it only been her mind which joined Reothe? Everything had seemed so real.

  One thing was clear, Reothe considered their vow still stood. He wanted her. More than that he needed her to regain Fair Isle. Had she made the right choice?

  Feeling the dawn breeze lift her long hair, Imoshen pulled the cloak more tightly about her. Grimly, she turned to go inside. A dark figure strode toward her. Her heart lurched. For a moment she thought it was Reothe come for her. Then she recognized the set of General Tulkhan’s broad shoulders, his outline unfamiliar in full battle regalia.

  “T’Imoshen,” he said, giving her her full royal title. He performed something she assumed was a formal gesture of greeting in his own land.

  She felt utterly vulnerable, frightened by what she had learned, afraid of being left alone for fear Reothe would find a way into the Stronghold. She was afraid for the General because he went to meet King Gharavan and possibly oppose him, and last of all she feared for her own future and that of the child she had begun this night.